User blog:Squibstress/A Slant-Told Tale - Chapter 37
Title: A Slant-Told Tale Author: Squibstress Rating: MA Genre: Drama, romance Warning/s: Explicit sexual content; violence; abuse; alcoholism Published: 23/05/2017 Disclaimer: All characters, settings and other elements from the Harry Potter franchise belong to J. K. Rowling. Chapter Thirty-Seven 25 August 1994 The silvery cat shot off into the night sky. Minerva hoped it would find Albus; she wasn’t certain how far the charm would carry, but she doubted it would reach the Continent, if that’s where he was. Thank goodness she’d found Arthur. She’d been sick with dread when she’d seen the Dark Mark hanging in the sky above the stadium, certain it had something to do with Harry Potter. But he and the other children were safe with Arthur, and Arthur had agreed to allow extra security around the Burrow until Potter was safely back at Hogwarts. Although if last term’s events were any indication, even Hogwarts wasn’t safe for the Boy Who Lived. While Albus publicly projected his usual air of avuncular wisdom and competence, in private, with Minerva, he worried about the mistakes he was making. “I’m afraid I’m past it,” he’d said after Potter and company’s near miss with a werewolf and the Dementors. “Nonsense. You’re just tired.” “It’s more than that, Minerva. I’m missing things I should have foreseen.” “So you’re a Seer now, are you?” Ignoring her comment, he’d said, “The last war should never have happened.” “That can hardly be laid at your door, Albus.” “I should have been able to stop it. I didn’t act soon enough, decisively enough.” “You did everything anyone could have expected, and more.” “And yet it was not I who ended it.” Minerva had remonstrated with him, tried to buck him up, but there was some truth to what he was saying. There was another war coming, and she was afraid they were all too old and tired to fight it. And Albus’s conviction that Potter would once again be the key … it seemed madness. He was a boy. A good-hearted, moderately talented boy, but even younger and greener than anyone in the original Order had been, and so many of them had died of their inexperience. Potter had been lucky once, protected by some obscure magic she could only begin to guess at, but sending him against one of the most powerful Dark wizards of all time would be tantamount to murder. She prayed to all the gods that Albus had something up his spangled sleeve that he hadn’t shared with her. His insecurity added a layer of unease to the general anxiety she’d felt since he’d told her, during their initial argument about leaving Harry on the doorstep of that horrible family, that Tom Riddle wasn’t quite as gone as everyone hoped. She tucked away her wand and began to make her way to the Apparition point. The campsite was a maelstrom of activity, with witches and wizards hurriedly packing up and herding children to the designated Apparition points. The grounds around the stadium were littered with items left behind when the panic had broken out. Banners bearing Ireland’s shamrock or Bulgaria’s red, white, and green stripes skittered across the ruins of the celebration, borne along by a light breeze that also brought the acrid smell of smoke to Minerva’s nostrils. Some campers had abandoned their tents, and in the evening’s chaos no one had bothered to put out the campfires that burned in front of them. Minerva transformed and padded through the debris, changing back to human form and dousing each small blaze with a blast of water from her wand. Satisfied that there was no longer any danger of a large conflagration, she joined the stragglers at the nearest point beyond the wards and Apparated back to the gates of the school. She went first to the headmaster’s office and composed a note, wording it cryptically, lest it fall into other hands: A, I sent you a cat this evening, but I fear she may not have reached you, as they are notoriously shy about crossing water. You will be interested to hear that there was an unfortunate incident involving some of our charming former sparring partners at this evening’s gathering. No one was seriously injured, and our young friend is safe with the Mustilidae family. Mr Moony will spend tomorrow inspecting the ginger fox’s den, and I imagine his canine companion will also show up at some point, so the kits should remain safe from predators. I look forward to your return with ever greater anticipation. M “Fawkes, my friend, I have a favour to ask of you,” she said to the phoenix, whose black eyes had followed her since she’d entered the office. Albus was the only one he really liked, and she had to tread lightly with the temperamental creature if she wanted him to do her bidding. “If you would be so kind as to deliver this note to Albus, I would be in your debt, and I am certain he would be most pleased with you. There will be many treats waiting for you when you return.” Fawkes cocked his head, considering, and there was a moment when Minerva thought he would simply duck under his wing and pretend to sleep, as he did whenever he was being shirty with her. But then he gave a mild chirrup she took to be his acquiescence, so she opened the cage and held out the rolled bit of parchment for him to take in his great talons. He fluttered out and gave a squawk of annoyance when she wasn’t quick enough opening the window. “I’m terribly sorry,” she said and let him out into the clear night air, where he soared for a few seconds, stretching his wings, before disappearing in a burst of flame. As soon as she entered her own office, an owl that was perched on the stone gargoyle outside her window began tapping with his beak on the glass. She opened the window and took the note it held, giving the bird a scratch on the head and an owl treat. Minerva, Sorry to have deserted you. It’s a madhouse here. Return a message with this owl so I know you’ve got home all right. (And you still owe me five Galleons. Krum got the snitch, even if he lost the match. You can pay up next week.) Amelia Minerva took a piece of parchment from her top desk drawer, dashed off the requested note, and sent it off with the owl. The following evening, there was a knock at Minerva’s door, and when she opened it, she was unsurprised to find Albus standing there. “Thank you for your message,” he said as she gestured for him to come in. “I thought you’d want to know as soon as possible. Here.” She handed him the glass of smoking Firewhisky she’d just poured for herself and went to get another. “Do you think it had anything to do with Potter?” she asked. “Perhaps, but even if it didn’t, it’s worrying. It suggests that the Death Eaters who escaped justice are feeling emboldened by the Ministry’s impotence.” “Amelia says that the policies Fudge has pushed through are hamstringing any investigation into potential Death Eater activity. They aren’t even allowed to refer to them in any reports. It’s as if the war never happened.” Albus sighed, and his hand went up to stroke his beard “It will make things very difficult when Tom returns.” A wave of nausea passed through Minerva. “So you think he will return soon?” “The things I have discovered in my travels suggest it.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “And of course, the Triwizard Tournament would have to be at Hogwarts this year,” she said. “That does rather complicate things.” He downed the last of his short drink, then gave her a wan smile, which told her he was about to say something she wouldn’t like. “Fortunately, I have taken steps to ensure that we have some extra security.” He got up and went to the drinks trolley to refresh his Firewhisky. “I’m happy to hear it,” she said. “What steps, if I’m allowed to know?” He held up the bottle, offering to top her glass off, and she shook her head. “It is imperative that you know ahead of time, but I fear you may not like it,” he said. “Now I’m on tenterhooks. What is it?” “I have killed two birds with one stone.” “Out with it, Albus.” “I have engaged Alastor as our Defence master.” She forced herself to remain still. “I see,” she said. “And what about that other fellow … Peasegood?” “He withdrew.” “What a shame.” “Perhaps. But Alastor is ideally suited to the task at hand.” “Twenty years ago, I would have agreed with you. Ten, even. But now …” “Now?” She lost the battle to stay seated and rose, going back to the drinks trolley. After adding another two fingers of whisky to her glass, she turned back to face him and said, “You must know that he has become exceedingly … eccentric over the years. His paranoia has got worse. He—” She pressed her lips together and squeezed her eyes shut, unable to continue the thought. Albus pretended not to notice her distress, and quietly nursed his drink until she had regained her composure. “Malcolm says that he hears things that aren’t there.” It felt like a betrayal to say it aloud. “Yes, I heard the rumours that circulated after he was retired from the Auror training programme. Kingsley believes it had more to do with Alastor’s saying that Voldemort would return than it did his other behaviour.” “Even if that’s true, do you think he’s well enough to be around children? Some of the teaching methods he used with his trainees were apparently quite unorthodox.” “Unorthodox” was Minerva’s term. “Ruthless” had been Amelia’s. Nevertheless, Amelia had publicly supported Alastor throughout his tribulations those last years, at some cost, perhaps, to her own professional reputation. His retirement had come as a relief to her and to Minerva, who, in those final months of Alastor’s career, had opened each morning’s Prophet with trepidation, half expecting to read an account of a new commotion, written in Rita Skeeter’s sly, insinuating tone, involving the man even the paper of record had taken to calling “Mad-Eye”. Albus said, “I have his assurances that he will adapt his methods so that they are appropriate for children. And a bit of unconventionality might be good for them. You once said yourself that he would make a fine teacher.” Minerva was surprised Albus remembered that. Then again, she supposed, it had been a memorable day. She said, “That was … oh, I don’t know how many years ago that was. He’s changed.” “We have all changed, Minerva.” “You know what I mean.” “I do. But Malcolm believes our students will be quite safe in the classroom with Alastor.” “You spoke with Malcolm about Alastor?” The same strange mixture of anxiety and hope that had always arisen when she thought of Albus and Malcolm together welled up in her. She knew they corresponded, but it had never gone much beyond that, despite the visits Albus had had from Malcolm, Eliane, and the children, Rosemonde, Maximilien, and Hélène, when they came over to see Minerva. Albus behaved with them as he did with all children: he was kindly, avuncular, and somewhat aloof. “I thought Malcolm would be able to provide an accurate view of Alastor’s mental and physical state.” Albus said. “He is confident that Alastor’s peculiarities pose no threat to anyone, except perhaps himself. Alastor is, apparently, very gentle with the children.” “According to Malcolm, they adore him.” “Children are often the best judges of character.” “I have never been concerned about Alastor’s character, you know that. It is his behaviour that worries me.” “We shall keep a close watch on him, of course, but Malcolm thought it a good idea.” Albus eyed her over the rim of his glass. “He also thought it would do Alastor good to be out among people, feeling useful.” Minerva smiled. “You’re getting obvious in your old age, Albus.” “Am I? I shall have to look out for that.” He finished his drink, and Minerva took his empty glass. His warm hand on her shoulder surprised her, and she looked up at his face to see his eyes crinkled in concern, peering into hers. “My dear, I recognise that it will be difficult for you to have him here. If you think you will find it intolerable—” She waved him away. “Don’t be absurd. It may be awkward at first, but I’m sure I’ll manage.” There was a pause, and Albus said, “I’m certain you will. And I believe we will all be safer with him in the castle.” After Albus left, Minerva paced around her sitting room for several minutes, trying to settle her nerves. After the excitement of last term, she’d enjoyed the relatively quiet summer, visiting Malcolm and his family in France in June, and looking forward to the Quidditch World Cup in August—even if Scotland had been knocked out by Luxembourg, of all teams. Although the Triwizard Tournament meant loads of extra preparation, she didn’t really mind, as she preferred to keep busy. All in all, it had been a good summer. And now all this. The Death Eaters on the march, Albus’s fears of Voldemort’s impending return … But what was utmost in her thoughts was the idea of Alastor there, at Hogwarts, of seeing him every day, at every meal, in meetings … she tried to picture it, but failed. Telling herself to stop being foolish, she got ready for bed. An early night would do her good, and there was a great deal to be accomplished over the next week. Staff would be arriving in three days’ time, and she’d need to have the timetables sorted by then, making sure that everyone had adequate nights off and that no one had too many chaperone or patrol hours. Going over the timetables in her mind helped settle it, and she fell asleep within minutes of lying down. Nevertheless, her dreams were a disturbing montage of scenes from her life with Alastor, the pleasant mixing with and morphing into the unpleasant without any warning, and when she woke in the morning, she felt enervated rather than refreshed. 31 August 1994 Alastor was packing his trunk. Dead useful, it was, and the best bargain he’d ever made. Second-hand, and cheap at only ten Galleons. It had some scratches and dents, sure, but the locks were sturdy enough to take the protective spells he put on them, and the Expansion Charms were better than any he’d encountered commercially. The seventh compartment alone was big and sturdy enough to hold a troublesome suspect through a tricky Apparition, and had done on several occasions. It could handle almost anything Alastor cared to carry with him, and that was the trouble. He didn’t quite know what to bring and what to leave, space being almost no object. He’d already thrown his few clothes and other necessaries into the trunk, plus the Invisibility Cloak, which he’d folded carefully. It had cost him nearly a year’s salary, but worth every Galleon. The standard-issue one every senior Auror got from MLE was, as far as Alastor was concerned, useful for lining a Jarvey’s pen, but not much else. Next, he’d tossed in a variety of antidotes and medicinal potions he’d brewed himself. He hadn’t touched anything made by another hand since a batch of Blood Replenisher he’d been given in the field—the Ministry said it had just gone bad, but Alastor knew better—had put him in Mungo’s for nearly a week a few years back. Not that he didn’t trust the matron at Hogwarts, but you couldn’t be too careful. If something could be swallowed, it could be tampered with, and that was a risk Alastor wasn’t going to take. He might be retired from the Aurors, but there were still plenty of people wanted him dead. So the flask was coming, too, despite his worry that certain people would think he’d taken to drink again. He looked at the trunk. What would a teacher need? As far as his subject was concerned, all it required was a wand and maybe the charmed cloak Minerva had given him all those years ago. In the weeks since Albus had cajoled him into taking the position, he’d thought a lot about how to approach it. When he’d been in school, the standard Defence curriculum had consisted mostly of book descriptions of Dark magic and lots of practice using only the most basic defensive spells. That was all very well and good, but even back then he’d known it wouldn’t be enough, and if it hadn’t been for the extra tutoring he’d badgered Professor Merrythought into giving him, he wouldn’t have lasted the first month of Auror training. These kids didn’t need to be Auror level, but they’d need a lot more than a perfect Protego or Expelliarmus if they were going to survive what was coming. So he’d worked out a plan to give them a taste of real Dark magic without exposing them to too much risk. He would start them off casting some of the more serious hexes and jinxes at him, which would both give them some practical experience in casting offensive spells and allow him to demonstrate effective counter-spells. Then he’d turn it around and have them try to block what he sent at them. And they’d be facing more than a Rictusempera or Jelly-Legs Jinx by the time the year was out. Although he didn’t intend to use any Unforgiveables or mount any sneak attacks, as he had done with his trainees, most of the students would never even have seen an actual curse cast before, and he didn’t want to frighten them too much or humiliate them. As he worked the older ones up to dealing with some of the Darker spells, he’d decided, he would let them use the cloak. He’d reinforced the charms, which would stand up to the weakened curses he planned to throw at them and repel anything that got through, while letting them get a bit of a feel for what it was like to block a spell that, under normal circumstances, would have been intended to kill. So the cloak would be coming with him, even if the sight of it brought back memories he didn’t need pestering him. What else? He tried to remember what Minerva’s office had looked like the last time he’d been in it. Books. Minerva had always had lots of books around her office and her quarters. After almost 50 years as an Auror, Alastor seldom needed to look anything up about defensive magic or the Dark Arts, but he didn’t fool himself that he knew everything. One of the little buggers might just have a question that he’d never considered, and how would it look if he had to send ’em to that pinch-faced librarian to find the answer? He went into his sitting room and bent down to look at the bookshelf. When he blew the dust off the spines, it came right back at him and made him sneeze, so he pulled his wand and cast a weak Scourgify so he could read the titles. There were two shelves of spellbooks, mostly outdated. After a few minutes’ deliberation, he pulled out a copy of Magick Moste Evile that was missing its front cover; a dog-eared 1960 edition of the World Encyclopaedia of Curses, the International Confederation’s Index of Proscribed Spells, 1970-1975; and Elusive Elixirs and Dreadful Draughts. He added his father’s prized first edition of Magical Water Plants of the Mediterranean because he couldn’t bear to leave it behind in an empty flat, and Theories of Transubstantial Transfiguration, which he’d only bought because Minerva had written the chapter on Animagus transformation. If, for some as-yet inconceivable reason, she were to visit his office, it couldn’t hurt if he had her book on his shelf, could it? He went to his battered desk. From a magically enlarged drawer, he withdrew a large stack of yellowing parchment. Since he was going to be stuck in the Highlands for the duration, he thought he might make use of the Hogwarts library. He had a notion—daft, no doubt—to organise the letters and notes and memories he’d got from Galatea Merrythought over the years into some sort of collection. Professor Merrythought had known more about the Dark Arts and the way its practitioners thought than anyone he’d ever met, and that included everyone at MLE. It wouldn’t be anything as grand as a book, but it could be something useful for future Aurors and anyone else interested in the topic. Alastor hoped Dumbledore might be willing to help with the project, as he’d known Professor Merrythought as long as anyone alive. The drawer also contained his letters from Minerva. He stood there for several minutes, debating with himself. It was about time he parted with them. He thought about tossing them into the fire, but decided to wait until he returned in the summer. Nine months of seeing her every day ought to give him his fill, and then maybe he’d be ready. He closed the drawer, grabbing a handful of quills to toss into the trunk, and stopped. The afternoon post sat in a small pile on the desk where he’d dumped it. On the top was a catalogue from one of the companies specialising in magical security. Several had cropped up during the long years of the last war. Out of curiosity he’d ordered a few things, and as he’d suspected, most of them had turned out to be a load of shite. But it gave him an idea. After depositing the quills and papers in his trunk, Alastor went to his bedroom and rummaged through a Shrunken box of junk that languished at the bottom of his wardrobe, and fished out a few items, including the three Sneakoscopes he’d stripped down to see how the spells worked. Two of them were rubbish, but one still functioned, more or less. He poked through the box some more and found the looking glass he’d worked on using some of the charms he’d teased out of the one decent Sneakoscope. He never really planned to do anything with it—it worked inconsistently at best—but along with the Sneakoscopes, he could use it to demonstrate the volatile effects of intent in determining whether a spell was Dark or Light, or somewhere in between. Alastor was rather pleased with himself. That ought to do it for his office. Enough things so he looked like he’d put some thought into teaching, but not so much that he looked like a prat who brought half his house with him wherever he went. He was going to toss the Sneakoscopes and what he called the Foe-Glass into the trunk when a noise from outside stopped him. It was a sort of clanging sound and had come from just outside the flat. He stood still, not breathing. He listened. Nothing. When he picked up the Foe-Glass, he thought he saw a shadow in it. He put it down and peered into it, but his own ugly face peered back at him. Then he heard it. It sounded as if there were voices coming from the vicinity of his front stoop. He drew his wand. Don’t go off yet, boyo. It’s probably the voices in yer head again. He made his way quietly down the stairs into the dark, narrow entryway and fixed his magical eye on the front door. He saw no one there, but the night was dark and his vision hazy through the thick oak. He pressed his ear to the door and listened. His heart almost stopped when a loud banging erupted just outside. Then there came an ungodly screech. Cats at the rubbish bins again. The clanging continued, punctuated by the plaintive sounds of feline misery. Alastor frowned. The charms he’d set on the bins to prevent the moggies getting into the rubbish shouldn’t have harmed them. But maybe something had gone wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time one of his protective enchantments had worked a little too well lately. The yowling rose in pitch and intensity. Whatever had happened, the unfortunate creature was suffering, and the thought of a cat in distress bothered Alastor more than he’d have admitted to any of his old Auror mates. He sighed, and quickly removed the wards from his door. He opened it cautiously and had just enough time to think, I should have … when he was hit by a Stunner. He came to a few moments later and realised he was bound, arms and legs tied together, and there was a shape coming towards him. He waited until it got close then flung himself at it. They both went arse over teakettle down the front steps to crash against his front gate, which made an almighty crash. A light went on in the flat across the street. His assailant was underneath him, struggling to get free. Alastor bit down hard into the flesh that was pressing against his face, and his opponent howled in pain and redoubled his effort to get up. Alastor did it again, and the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. The man screamed again and yelled, “He’s trying to kill me!” Alastor worked his bound legs up until he could brace them against something firm—his opponent’s back—and pushed himself into a kneeling position. He looked at the back of the man’s pudgy neck and brought his arms up. If he hit hard enough with his elbows, he’d stun him, or even kill him. A shadow fell between him and the streetlight, obscuring his view. He looked up. There was a brilliant flash of light, then Alastor knew no more. When he regained consciousness, he was lying on a hard surface in a room that was only a little longer than he was tall. He pushed himself up to sitting. His head ached, and he squinted at the blinding light that seemed to be coming from far above him. Where the hell was he? And more importantly, where was his wand? Gone, of course. Along with his shirt and trousers. And his eye and leg. Shite. Well, best to find out right away how much trouble he’d bought. “Oi!” he shouted. A moment later, a shadow blocked out the direct light. Alastor’s eyes focussed and he saw a face looking down at him from a height of about ten feet, and then he knew where he was. The face disappeared, and Alastor heard a voice say, “He’s awake.” Another face appeared, and this one he recognised. He called up to it. “Crouch. Thought you were dead.” He made sure his voice didn’t betray his shock. Crouch laughed. “Surprised?” “Not really. The stench of bad rubbish has a way of lingering even after you’ve taken it out.” He was gratified to see Crouch’s brows knit together for a moment. “You’re awfully amusing for a man who’s going to spend the rest of his short life locked in his own trunk.” “You sure of that?” “As sure as I can possibly be, Moody. Incarcerous!” The magical bonds that secured Alastor’s arms and legs tightened painfully. Crouch hopped down into the compartment. “I’m happy to find that you still have the trunk. It makes my job even easier,” he said. He looked around and sniffed. “It’s even smaller than I remember it. And smellier.” The other face, bearing a worried expression, appeared at the opening and looked down after him. “Are you sure he’s safe, Barty?” “I thought I told you to go deal with the Muggles. The Master won’t be very happy if you bungle that, too, will he?” The face disappeared again, and Crouch turned back to Alastor, his eyes glinting with malice. “It’s going to give me such pleasure to break you, Moody. But where to start? How about a minute for every stinking hour I spent in Azkaban? Crucio!” Alastor put all his effort in to keeping quiet as the agony ripped through him. Crouch held the spell for a minute, then blessed relief washed through Alastor when Crouch’s wand dropped to his side again. When he caught his breath, Alastor said, “Still playing lapdog to that bent Little Lord Fauntleroy? Where’s he been hidin’ since losing all his power to a baby?” “Crucio!” The agony came again, this time for longer, and when it ended, Crouch was panting almost as hard as Alastor. Crouch said, “I would kill you for speaking so disrespectfully of the Dark Lord, but unfortunately, I need you alive for the time being. You see, you’re going to help him get his power back.” Alastor snorted. “Yer even dafter than you were when they handed you to the Dementors.” “I have you to thank for that, don’t I?” “You’ve got no one to thank but yerself, boy.” Crouch’s hand shot out, grabbed a fistful of Alastor’s hair, and yanked, ripping it from his head. He stuck it in his pocket, saying, “This ought to be enough to start with,” and Alastor’s bowels turned to water. There was only one reason Crouch would want his hair. And if he looked like Alastor, he’d have the run of Hogwarts, where the Potter boy was. And Minerva. It couldn’t work, Alastor told himself. Someone would twig to it. Minerva would know it wasn’t him. He’d not spoken to her for more than a decade, but she’d know. “Now, there are some things I need to know, Moody,” the little shite said. He crouched down to speak directly into Alastor’s face. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way.” “Fuck off.” “Your choice.” Crouch stood again. “Crucio!” When it stopped two minutes later, Alastor vomited down his front. Crouch pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and held it to his nose. His voice was comically muffled when he said, “Imperio!” Alastor felt the tickle of the spell inside his mind, and summoned his strength to block it. Crouch shook his head. “You are determined to draw this out, aren’t you? Crucio!” It went on for almost an hour, the torture alternating with Crouch’s attempts to gain control of Alastor’s mind, until Alastor blacked out again. He awoke to see his own face staring back at him, his wand pointed at his head. “You really have worn out your welcome with the Ministry, haven’t you, Moody?” Crouch said. “They were ready to haul me off until that Weasley oaf showed up.” So Arthur Weasley had been fooled. Means nothing. Never spent much time with him. He wasn’t prepared for the next Crucio, and he started screaming immediately. It stopped, and Alastor felt a warm wetness that he realised was his own piss. When the tendrils of Crouch’s Imperius wrapped around Alastor they were like his mother’s arms, soft and inviting, he knew he could hold out no longer. He let Crouch in and found himself answering the questions Crouch asked. It felt good. He had no decisions to make, no will to exert, just peace. He caught himself in time. Christ. I almost … Aurors were trained to resist Veritaserum, which was why Crouch wasn’t using it. If he’d tried Legilimency, Alastor would’ve been lost, but almost no one knew how to do it. Not many could do an Imperius either, but some could, and after the last war, Alastor had insisted that his trainees practice resisting it. Thus, his own skills were still sharper than Crouch probably thought they’d be. If only Alastor could hold on … Crouch grilled him endlessly, stopping to repeat the cycle of torture when it seemed Alastor might be trying to resist. Alastor leant into the curse, and let Crouch have some unimportant—he hoped—information about Dumbeldore’s plans for the Triwizard tournament, and spewed some deliberate misinformation about protections Dumbledore had placed on the Potter boy. When Crouch began asking about his relations with various members of the Hogwarts staff, Alastor rallied the last of his strength to keep from letting slip anything about Minerva. “Barely know her,” he said when Crouch got around to asking. Alastor’s head was pounding like a herd of Hippogriffs had been stampeding through it and his words were slurring, but he kept his grip and went on. “Tight-arsed, stuck-up prude. Thinks she’s Dumbledore’s right hand, but she’s too in love with him to know that he doesn’t trust her. He lets her babysit Potter. That’s all.” “Someone told me you’d been lovers once.” Fuck. “A rumour Dumbledore spread around. I took her out a couple of times on his orders. He didn’t want anyone else nosing around there. She was a security risk. If she had a lover, she might tell ’im about things. Dumbledore figured if people thought she was with me, it would put them off.” “So you didn’t have a personal relationship with her?” “With Minerva McGonagall? I pity the bastard tries to get into her ironclad knickers.” Crouch seemed to accept that and moved on. Thank Christ he didn’t know how much effort the last bit had cost Alastor, because there was no strength left in him to resist. The interrogation continued, Crouch applying the Cruciatus at regular intervals. Alastor guessed it was because he liked doing it. Alastor was too exhausted by his efforts to protect Potter and Minerva to resist telling Crouch about his own life and habits. “Well,” Crouch said finally, standing and stretching, “you’ve been really helpful. But now it’s time to head up to Scotland. If I hurry, I should just make the opening feast.” As Crouch turned, a delirious and nearly unconscious Alastor said after him, “Yer dead.” Crouch laughed. “I would have thought the last few hours were enough to convince you that I’m very much alive.” “You misunderstand me, boy. When I get out of here, I’m going to kill you.” ← Back to Chapter 36 On to Chapter 38→ Chapters of Slant-Told Tale, A